| |
The
slow death of my sex life is just part of becoming a mother.
It's not the defining aspect; however, I have been changed by
my lack of parental preparation. Kicking the virtual slut out
of my bed (me in the right mood) became necessary when Polly,
our kid, became a partner in our marital bed. Always uncomfortable
with parents who spout every psychological, parenting, and commercial
term related to modern child-rearing, I refuse to say "family
bed." Once Polly moved from newborn to 'real big baby' stage,
I declared I wasn't married to the idea at all. In fact, by the
time the kid was seven months old, I barely felt married at all.
It's pretty difficult to focus on 'down-and-dirty' stuff, unless
you're talking diapers.
I thought
marriage meant: two people living together in holy union who decide
whether to have babies or not, maybe a pet, definitely sex. Now
I know it's more like: consider yourself two people who understand
each other's sense of humor innately but rarely have a carefree
moment, certainly not unclothed. We weren't prepared. My husband
and I disregarded our midwife who once said, "Sex? You will never
have spontaneous sex again." This had to be misleading.
It sure
was. The truth is you will never have any sex again. Not everybody;
just us. We thought she was addressing the entire prenatal class.
We knew all the others in class probably got amorous in labor and
couldn't wait for the episiotomy stitches to heal.
To experience
the (wince) family bed is to arrive at an intimate knowledge of
every muscle in your body. For example, I'm painfully aware of the
entire left side of my body. My lower back and neck are permanently
wrenched with spiritual unity, direct parental love, and tendonitis.
It's physically impossible to enjoy spooning when an infant is attached
to your breast. The simple act of rolling over becomes a life or
death struggle with an invisible attacker. Think of it as playing
Twister with yourself, while maintaining a steady groan. Crud, when
did I become fifty-five years old? Months and months ago. After
having natural childbirth, that's when.
Before
I appear too pathetic it must be said that the majority of this
pain is caused by our not having a king-sized mattress. The only
alternative is our living room couch, which sleeps scores of cats
comfortably; but not a married couple. To any future parents who
want to do a family bed, I say: Have a king-sized mattress and get
the kid out of the bed by five months. We must sleep in precise
interlocking shapes, like Leggo-blocks or a 3-D Puzzle. Turning
can only be successful if a maneuver is made in one swift effort,
without disrupting blanket arrangements or stuffed bunnies. Must
not land on squeaky rubber toy or crack elbow on the sharpest part
of the night table.
Our
queen-size bed allowed my husband and me only enough room to lay
our shoulders flat and glue our arms to our sides. It's just enough
vice-like tension to squeeze milk out of my engorged breasts. My
daughter, on the other hand, sleeps in the shape of Christ on the
Cross.
Expect
your child to develop such an intense physical bond with you that
they'll be as accurate as a motion-sensitive floodlight. Just as
your pulse slows, your eye movements become uncontrollable, and
you feel your brain soaking up the salty waters of REM sleep, that's
when the baby will start to wiggle itself into a loud wail. Expect
then to bond with a migraine headache. Headaches are those things
you used to rely on to get out of having sex, remember?
Women
are sexually complex. Men, all they need is a hand: yours, theirs,
doesn't take much to keep them happy. Only a brave husband will
attempt to woo a woman who feels aged, altered, damp, cramped, and
sore from passing a human being. Not that you'll never have sex.
It just feels like it. There does come a point when you need to
technically accomplish sex. Just to keep your license valid at the
very least. Not enjoying it, that's getting ahead of yourself. You
know you've got to make a decision when you're willing to have intercourse
while a baby nibbles away your nipple. Did I lift my legs and give
it up anyway? Yes, I did it for King and Country.
Other
rules of the (grimace) family bed include a range of issues. No
farting that can't be blamed on the child. Nine plus months of lady-like
splatter flatulence already destroyed any illusions your husband
had about your femininity. Continuing to let it go is like spitting
on your illusion's grave. My husband feared the baby would suffocate
herself in one particularly toxic gastric riposte.
Amid
semen, breast milk, and incontinence (yours and baby's) there will
be frequent sheet changes. You have more laundry than sex. Forget
late night television. This will transfix your infant into a hypnotic
waking state that will take hours to peter out. You must lie in
the dark, arms at side, except when yanking all important muscles
to turn sideways and nurse. The insanity of this type of silence
is for the lambs.
When
Polly was two months old, somewhere around four a.m., after she
yanked me away from Mr. Sandman about five times, I bolted into
a seated upright position. Somehow I had grabbed her, held her at
arm's length, and begged my husband to "Take her before I throw
her against the wall." It just came out. I didn't visualize doing
it, of course. I wouldn't do that. Good mothers never say things
like that do they? I was becoming animalistic. The family bed was
becoming a sensory deprivation tank that was rapidly altering our
states.
What
would a family be without two filthy, dirty, smelly cats licking
their butts out loud in the dark to top it off? The cats also provide
kitty CPR demonstrations on your infant's chest during the predawn
dining hours they prefer. Polly said her first word while having
her chest pumped by our tabby: "Eeahhhaggghh."
By the
time she was a year old, Polly was so large a new decision had to
be made. "Honey, do you wanna sleep on the floor or the couch?"
For a few weeks, my durable spouse took the floor, so he could at
least be in the same room with us. Then one night the baby wiggled,
turned over, and rolled right off the bed on top of my husband.
Her chubby foot was slightly caught in the bed frame and we both
awoke like firefighters slidin' down the pole. I blamed my husband,
being sleep deprived and crippled with my eighty-third stiff neck
of the year. "This cannot go on! We cannot wait to get a king-sized
bed anymore! This is not about money anymore!" You would've thought
Child Protective Services had burst into the house, stuck a flashlight
in his eyes and punished him. By the time his heart stopped palpitating
he felt properly guilty and we were in the living room on the floor.
This
is where we slept for another six weeks or so. Then our neighbor
was caught trying to throw away his queen-sized futon mattress.
Tsk-tsk. We can use it. So what if it's got the lifetime of another
human's essence on it? So what if it has no handles to carry or
grab it with? So what if the slip cover is as thin as sausage skin
and tears an average of six inches a day? So what if it's navy blue
and grandly displays every white cat hair or baby spill?
Polly
and I lay on that futon every night for two months. We got the bright
idea to cut away the cushioning that backed and seated our second-hand
couch. During the day, I'd wrestle my new opponent: the futon. A
qualified win was getting the futon on the now eviscerated couch
frame with even spacing and positioning ... within fifteen minutes.
After another month of this ridiculous ritual, the slip cover on
the futon was almost entirely gone, now nothing more than an enlarged
fringe. A goiter fringe.
We did
not leave the futon in the dumpster without learning something.
Futon couches are cheaper than beds. We get rid of the couch, we
get a futon-bed-couch.
So we
did. The armrests doubled as little wooden compartments. These spaces
became "Mission Control" for Polly. Even thought it was just Polly
and me in this futon, it was still a (flinch) family bed. The family
bed was now also a receptacle for action figures, crushed potato
chips, bits of meat, and pens. Mission Control.
Things
seem more calm and comfortable for everyone now that my husband
sleeps alone in the bedroom while the kid and I practice insomnia
on our air-spring futon-mattress-couch-bed. I adore the little gushes,
sighs, and whimperings that slip from Polly's kissable lips. I recall
the good old days when I used to snuggle up to my hubby with that
thought and try to medicate the sadness with the miraculous little
being that is my kid. It eases you into the acceptance that this
is as prepared as you're ever gonna get doing the hard work of parenting.
The
adjustment becomes your sex life. Now intimacy is like an act of
espionage. You trick the enemy into going to sleep. Skulk off the
futon without tripping the enemy's motion sensors, sneak into the
bedroom without kicking large plastic toys into noisy piles of clutter,
tap your double-agent on the shoulder and say, "Do you wanna do
it?"
So it
turns out that "yeah" is the most romantic word in the language
of the family bed. Say it with feeling, but not too loud. You don't
want to wake up the baby.
Copyright
© 2000 Viki Reed All Rights Reserved
comment?
discuss this article on our discussion
board
|
